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Steve’s at the door, paying for the pizza: one classic pep-n-sausage, one supreme, and one half-meat lovers, half-Hawaiian—not because they disagree about toppings—they actually agree too perfectly, and that that culinary heathen Argyle can never know his outrageous suggestion was taken on board; they cannot risk any stray leftovers giving them away, just in case.But, like, it’s always that. The same dude delivers the pizza, expects Steve to have the cash out and tell him to keep the change—whether Eddie’s slipped a ten inside earlier or not; Steve’s given up fighting him on it because he understands he got a government payout, too, and he also has some small shred of pride left, even if that’s not really why he does it.He does it more for…reasons far too humiliating, and vulnerable, and worse-still too tender, too fucking domestic, to own to in real words and cogent enough to appropriately or accurately imply his…deeper and-or larger feelings on the matter. So.Steve lets him get away with it, and just sometimes smiles at the bills, sometimes rolls his eyes, and it feels…Ways that Eddie’s doesn’t put words to. He just explained that, Jesus H.Can’t be a fucking surprise by this point. At least not to Eddie.But that’s the thing, isn’t it. They have a routine. They have a, a…this is a standing engagement. Like a meeting marked on a calendar, save that they don’t have to mark it down or call to confirm: it just happens. They just know.And Eddie sees the Party is various combinations throughout the week—more and more as his rehab is actually starting to make progress, as he’s lasting longer off the couch and even sometimes outside the house entirely, might even get behind the wheel again all on his own within the month. But by Friday, he’s more than spent. He’s gotta take the breather, still, and Steve sees it. Never says so.But makes sure Eddie’s comfortable on his own motherfucking couch with the most scintillating new release Family Video has to offer, and their regular pizza order already on the way.Steve always comes to him. Every fucking Friday, when he knows Eddie’s still not, maybe never will prefer being entirely alone ever again, and knows just as sure that Eddie can’t be anywhere but here.So Steve is…always here.Eddie doesn’t know what prods him to open his mouth about it now, of all possible times; doesn’t know what prompts the thoughts themselves to weave into words at all.But as soon as they’re out, he knows that he means them. Which means they’ve been living under the surface, festering in wait, longer than he probably could have known.“Don’t you ever get sick of this?”It’s such a fucking sigh that stream from Eddie’s lips on the question, too. Self-pitying. But also a little bit of an accusation, like: why the fuck is Steve even still here, when anywhere else would be infinitely preferable?Steve turns toward him, slice of pizza hanging from his mouth. He’s…he’s fucking beautiful.How he’s fucking beautiful with a mushroom falling from between his teeth is beyond Eddie, but fuck all: it’s the god’s-honest truth.But Steve takes a proper bite and puts the other half of the slice back in the box because of course they don’t bother with plates, and finishes chewing what he’s got on this tongue with an extra layer of thoughtfulness; takes an extra batch of seconds before he swallows. Weighs his wine words carefully when they come:“What do you mean?”It’s not evasive. It’s not even trying to force the ball back into Eddie’s hands. It’s…Eddie can tell Steve has different answers, depending on how Eddie responds.So he decides to weigh his next words extra-careful, too.”Just like, this, man. Same ol’, same ol’.”It’s not what he wants to say, he knows that as soon as it’s put out there to be heard. But he doesn’t know if he actually knows what he wants to say, or ask, let alone how. He gestures at the room around them, winces at the tightness it tests up his left side—hopes maybe Steve will get some inspiration and find his words for him.Like he’s found so much of Eddie these past months, pieced him back together when he was sure in the beginning he’d never be whole again.“Sick of seeing you hurt this bad?” is what Steve comes up with, and…no, that’s not what Eddie was going for, but he’s gonna let it ride because it tingles like a sparkler in the Center of his chest.“Of course,” and Steve says it as straight and definitive as Eddie thinks those words can be said by anyone, for anything; the way he figures maybe they were made to be said when words started in the first place.Then Steve leans in, and Eddie…this is just how it always is, right? They do this every week. Almost exactly the same.Steve doesn’t have to lean far to be close enough for Eddie to feel the breath of him, and swear to fuck, Eddie never realized they sat quite this close for the movies, crowded around the pizza. Knew their legs touched but…not this much.Close to…tangled, almost. Fuck.Eddies heart trips a solid five times before it remembers it ever knew a rhythm.“But I’m never of being here to at least try to make it ache that little bit less,” and Steve’s hand lands soft on eddies thigh, and fuck, eddies breath les catches, more than just fuckin’ stops—steve reads it the wrong way, pulls back and grimaces from the heart, has the gorgeous audacity to say, all apologetic, and with feeling:“Even when I can’t.”Eddie does kind of suspect a lack of being useful is one of Steve Harrington’s biggest fears in life. But this…even just the sound of this lands different.“No, no,” Eddie tries to sort out his thoughts, shake his head enough to clear it but not amp up a headache, something Steve’s taught him to be particularly attentive to that shit; “I mean, like,” and he huffs, closer to growls than anything more civilized.“Can’t keep my shit together,” Eddie bursts out with, apparently finding the shape of the thing that’s been festering, surprising himself with it a little, but not…much.Not really.“Months later, almost a fucking year,” he spits, disgusted now that he’s unearthed the core of it, “and you,” he turns to Steve, still
Leaned so goddamn close—“It’s prime date night,” every Friday; “and you’re always here,” on prime date night, wasting his chances, wasting his time, wasting everything on—“I’m ruining it,” Eddie realizes, heart in his throat plummeting to his fucking stomach, appalled as he sees it all in the light of this new obvious truth, this truth that once Steve sees it too he’ll leave, and what if he doesn’t come back at all because eddies been hogging him without even meaning too, just been to selfish and wrapped up in his own bullshit, and he’s—“I’m ruining you,” Eddie’s voice cracks, fucking appalled, goddamn devastated—and it’s not courage or anything, that lets Eddie reach out and fit his sometimes-shaky palm to Steve’s cheek and hold him there; it’s not some brave declaration of the way he wants things he still can’t name.And the man he’s feels the unnamable thing for? He’s fucking taking up all his time, monopolizing his light, taking him away from the future he was talking through when he thought he was gonna fucking die, driving a goddamn RV, Eddie is a horrible fucking…worm, a pathetic excuse for a person, he is ruining—“Kinda.”Eddie feels everything in him somehow…tense and start to disintegrate at the same time because…he knew it was true, but Steve, Steve’s agreeing—“You’re kinda ruining me for anyone else.”And Eddie blinks, blinks some more: because Steve sounds…happy.Like…punch drunk.Eddie chances breaking his heart for the thing he can’t name, and turns the little bit to took and—Oh.Oh, that smile. Steve’s smile.At him.It’s lazy sunlight. It’s syrup slow and sweet. It’s quiet and it’s comfortable and he’s only looking at Eddie. Not the TV. Not the pizza. Not the kitchen where the sink drips a little in the background but Eddie can’t hear it over the thump of his rabbit heart.Just him. Like he’s…worth it.Worth…being ruined. Like he’s—“You’re ruining me for anything that isn’t this,” Steve says low, because he is brave, and maybe he can’t say the thing either but he can talk closer near it, like a hand pushed through Eddie’s ribs to calm his pulse and call it worth something.Maybe worth a lot of somethings, even. Possibly, impossibly, even, worth everyth—“That isn’t this, with you,” Steve breathes, and he looks like he thinks about leaning in that little bit more, like he was really thinking about pressing lips too eddies hair, his temple, maybe lower, maybe set to ruin him because Eddie feels a little ruined already, because Steve hadn’t meant ruined the Eddie was so fearing, so sure of; he was talking about something that rang out a key that echoes in his ribs like the thing he can’t name—Steve doesn’t press lips to Eddie’s skin, though. Eddie tries not to be disappointed.Steve stretches out across the couch instead, though, and props his legs up on the arm opposite where Eddie sits, socked feet crossed as he settles his head in Eddie’s lap.He’s never done that before. Eddie’s heart takes a fucking flying leap when Steve’s lashes flutter and he looks up and Eddie like he’s exactly—somehow exactly what Steve wants for the ruination, as much as the ruining.He grins up at him a little, and presses a little extra close to Eddie’s crotch as he shifts to reach his abandoned half-a-pizza-slice.Eddie watches, transfixed. Enraptured.His heart hasn’t even landed from the fucking leaping yet, while Steve’s biting and the tip of his pizza, the pouty part of the triangle, getting sauce at the corner of those lips—“This feels like,” Steve talks with his mouth full; “like I always imagined home would feel like.”He finishes the slice and chews while he settles his head closer to Eddie, and…and that’s where Eddie’s heart lands, settles too: down half in his stomach again, tapping frantic, close to Steve, closer closer closer—And Steve just leans in.And Eddie is…ruined.How the fuck did he forget that word could mean something this…this.Steve finally does press his lips to something; Eddie’s wrist when he reaches for his own slice of pizza, when he thinks his pulse is calm enough that he can swallow right.Then Steve grabs it, pauses it in midair, tilts his head around the crust and just…kisses that heartbeat right up to making it difficult to breathe.“Home,” he sighs a little, then looks up at Eddie again, wipes his lip off with his thumb and sucks the stray sauce off as he turns to the television with a hum as he exhales:“That’s you.”And Steve Harrington, spends prime date night at Eddie Munson’s house. Every week. Orders pizza: same place, same pies.And the thing that Eddie couldn’t find a name for suddenly’s the only word his blood knows how to beat, and it’s not even scary that Steve has to hear it, pressed so close.Because Steve is pressed that close.And on prime date night—every prime date night—apparently?Steve Harrington happily comes home.To him.